


Complicated

by orphan_account



Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: Banjo Music, Boys Kissing, M/M, Romance, Stanford Pines is Rather Blind, Zombies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-22
Updated: 2017-06-22
Packaged: 2018-11-17 04:41:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 689
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11268150
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Things are complicated for Stanford Pines one night in the woods of Gravity Falls.





	Complicated

At the moment, things were complicated.

At the moment, Stanford Pines was trapped in the middle of the woods with nothing but his  ~~ dear friend ~~ lab assistant, a poorly-constructed tent, a half-filled journal, and a banjo.

At the moment, a large horde of the undead was advancing upon the petrified pair.

_ Complicated _ might have been a slight understatement.

“What do we do? What do we do?” Fiddleford was hyperventilating, clutching his banjo like a baseball bat.

“I don’t know, I don’t know, I don’t know!” Stanford swore, paging frantically through the book. “I should have done more studies before reading that spell out loud!” He yanked a baseball bat from the tent--weapons were always handy when alone in the woods in Gravity Falls--and said, “Prepare to fight!”

The creatures drew closer. As they came within melee range, Fiddleford turned to Stanford with fear in his eyes and half-whispered, “If we die tonight… I should tell you that--”

“Look out!” Stanford screamed, and swung the baseball bat at a zombie that had gotten way too close, then sank back into a defensive stance, waiting for the next monster to get close enough. “Can you tell me while we fight for our lives, or is this a now-or-never kind of thing?”

“It’s, it’s kinda urgent, Stanferd!” Fiddleford replied, his voice trembling.

“So is trying not to die!” Ford swung out wildly once more, but he was becoming overtaken with the creatures.

Fiddleford backed away, shaking his head. “This is different,” he explained hastily. “See, the thing is, Stanferd--” He stopped with a shriek as a zombie stretched out a clawing hand for him, then without thinking clocked it in the head with his banjo.

It let out a little musical twang, and the zombie’s skull burst open in a shower of putrid yellow-green ooze. Stanford gasped. “Harmonies!” he cried. “Producing a harmony will cause a vibration that should make the creatures’ heads explode! Fiddleford, you’re a genius!” He grinned at his assistant. “All you have to do is play your banjo!” 

Fiddleford’s eyes lit up. “Really?”

Stanford’s grin turned into a grimace. “Oh, no.”

Fiddleford’s face went from terrified to wicked amusement as Stanford realized. “Oh,  _ yes, _ ” he replied, and, placing his foot on a tree stump and balancing the instrument on his knee, he began strumming. More zombies fell to the ground, their heads bursting from the music, and Stanford quickly retreated to stand beside his assistant.

“Yes!” the scientist cried as the zombies began a retreat, dozens falling to the ground, defeated. “Keep it up, Fiddleford!”

The engineer didn’t answer, completely focused on his task.

It  _ was _ rather impressive, Stanford decided as he watched Fiddleford’s fingers blur across the strings.

Normally, Stanford Pines  _ loathed _ the banjo.

At the moment, however, it was his favorite sound.

He decided his emotions about the banjo were… complicated.

When the last of the zombies had fallen, the sun had begun to rise. Fiddleford dropped the banjo and cradled his right hand. “Boy howdy, I can’t remember the last time I played so fast,” he panted.

“Well, it’s a good thing you were able to. Your skill saved us, Fiddleford.” Stanford grinned at his lab partner.

For some reason, this made the engineer go very red and dip his chin. “It was nothin’,” he said.

Stanford cuffed his friend on the shoulder happily. “It was great is what it was,” he declared. “Now, what was it you wanted to tell me?”

Fiddleford bit his lip and shook his head. “Also nothin’. Come on, we’d better clean up camp.”

“Oh, come on, Fiddleford. You’ve never kept anything from me before.” He paused. “It’s not anything… bad, is it?”

Once again, Fiddleford shook his head. “No, nothin’ bad. I just… I….” He struggled for a moment for words, then grabbed Ford by the collar of his shirt and tugged him in for a deep but short-lived kiss right on the mouth before darting away to start hastily disassembling the tent.

Stanford stood there dumbly, a finger to his lips, for quite some time.

He decided that his emotions about his lab partner were… complicated.


End file.
